You’ll Find Me in Manhattan

One – Amalia (#uad08a62a-4c9d-5d44-8ecc-f9b7d07b921c)

“Amalia, wait!” Hayden called out from behind me. I could hear his voice cracking with distress beneath each syllable.

Despite his unease, probably brought on by chasing me in a foot pursuit, he was handling himself pretty well. Unlike me, his breath seemed perfectly in sync. I guess that’s the difference between a well-toned, six-foot-something guy running, and a five-foot five-inch girl who hasn’t been to the gym since 2010. I took a small moment to commend myself on not being a smoker and wondered how Olivia would he holding up in the exact same situation.

Although something told me Olivia wouldn’t be running through the crowded streets of midtown to get away from Alex. Or maybe she would, she did run away during the NYU dinner and that was in the financial district. Come to think of it, I never asked her why she did that. I assumed it was because of something Alex had done, or said, to her.

That seemed like a lifetime ago.

Not really paying attention to where I was headed, I somehow managed to run, in high heels no less, right into the middle of the most heavily populated area in Manhattan. Times Square.

Jackpot.

It was mean, I know. But he was following me, and I had to lead him somewhere he wouldn’t be able to catch up with me. I had to do something harsh, something drastic.

I had to get him to hate me.

Bustles of children with their parents zipped around me as the giant flashing billboards with advertisements for Broadway shows suddenly distracted me and had me wondering if I, in fact, would somehow get trapped in one of these novelty stores for the next two hours. Or, at least, until Hayden stopped chasing me.

“Amalia!” he puffed out. “Please!” Traces of panic and panting tickled his voice.

He was getting closer. I picked up the pace and accidentally collided with a street artist making caricatures of a neighboring couple. I slowed my speed to regain my footing, all the while observing their unspoken comfort with one another. Even with me literally crashing through their afternoon activities, they laughed it off and held hands. I mumbled that I was sorry and I shook my head, while tears threatened to spill out of my already puffy eyes.

I dodged past yet another crowd of people dressed warmly in heavy down coats, laughing, ignoring the punishing cold of February in the city. My favorite magenta-colored wool scarf had flown off my neck a few blocks back. But as cold as it was, I was drenched in sweat from my sprint. Finally, I stopped running and ducked behind the large red staircase pavilion: a hideous eyesore in Times Square that opened in 2008. I couldn’t believe how thankful I was to see it right at this very moment. The giant bleacher-like structure allowed tourists to have a seat and take in the scenery. But right now, I wanted to let it all out. Force it all out. Everything I was feeling. I ducked further down, my skinny jeans stretching in all the wrong places as I uncomfortably made myself smaller. I took a deep breath, which sounded somewhere in between a gasp and a sob, and pressed the palms of my hands into my eyes. I knew I seemed like a crazy person, but better he thought that than continued to see me as perfect.

Perfect. The word still echoed with me. The last real conversation we had before I told him I was choosing Michael. The last conversation before Michael’s deadline. After today, Hayden would surely never feel that way about me again. But wasn’t that what I wanted?

My palms were wet and covered in smeared mascara. I wiped them on my dark wash jeans, not caring about any make-up stains that might ensue in the process. I knew I looked borderline homeless, or maybe like a mental patient who had escaped from a nearby hospital. But right now I was really grateful that I was in New York City. You could have yourself convinced that you were the craziest person this side of the Hudson River, but some loon was always nearby, challenging you for the title.

I took a couple of more deep breaths, my chest rising and falling so hard I had to unzip my puffy down jacket. I gently pressed my fingertips into the pulse point in my neck and willed my heart to slow down. A beat later, my phone buzzed in my purse. I jumped from anxiety and then moved my hand from my neck to my chest. I really needed to calm down. Slowly, I reached into my bag for my phone, handling it like it was a bomb about to explode. Hayden’s name lit up on the screen in the form of a text message. I hesitantly unlocked my phone, bracing myself for the inevitable flash of anger. A message charged with hate and disdain for me.

But it wasn’t. And somehow that made it even worse.

“Amalia – I don’t understand, but I guess I don’t need to. You chose someone else and I have to respect that. Don’t worry, I won’t chase you anymore. But I can’t promise I’ll stop loving you.”

H

I glanced down at the ground for a moment before slowly tucking the phone back into my purse. A chilling breeze blew through my disheveled hair, and, just like that, I was freezing again. Still unable to move, I just sat on the ground of Times Square for a few more seconds. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t blink, couldn’t process a single thing.

Then I screamed. I don’t think anyone heard me, it’s always so loud in that part of the city, but I still screamed. I screamed and cried, and screamed some more. I screamed so loudly and for so long, that my voice felt and sounded metallic when I finished.

I had no idea how much time passed, but when my legs finally felt strong enough to move I walked up to the corner of 7

avenue and hailed a cab back to my neighborhood, Murray Hill. I numbly stared out the window the entire car ride and gazed at everyone mindlessly walking around. Scurrying along at lightning speed to get to their next meeting or to their lunch plans, or nowhere at all. Just trained like animals to rush through their life out of desperate fear that might miss something important.

That was the first time I really allowed myself to feel it. The first time I truly thought: I have to get out of New York.

Two – Olivia (#uad08a62a-4c9d-5d44-8ecc-f9b7d07b921c)

Four months later

“I don’t know how I feel about this one,” I smoothed the silky bodice with my right hand, while trying to wrap the alarmingly long crystallized train in my left. “It’s a bit too much dress for me.”

The room was cold and I shivered while standing in the gown. Although it was only the end of May, the manager of this establishment had the air-conditioning on the highest possible setting. Which made it pretty darn uncomfortable to stand in a sleeveless dress. If only to make this afternoon with my mother more pleasant.

As soon as I caught Amalia’s eye, she grimaced. I could tell from that one look that she completely agreed. The train had to be somewhere near four feet long. Too long even to just take pictures in! I didn’t even want to check the price tag. Then my eyes fell on to my mother, who was already making her way over to me.

“Well, darling, it is your wedding day,” she spoke in a stern voice through a tight, fake smile. She tucked a piece of her short brown hair behind her ear and looked me square in the eyes. “When else will you get to dress up like a princess?” She crossed her arms in front of her, challenging me. I had no idea why she cared so much.

I lowered my eyebrows and shook my head. I didn’t really feel like that was entirely the point of finding the right wedding dress. I was standing on a small podium in front of a giant mirror with two supporting mirrors on each side, allowing me to see this giant, glitter-covered cupcake from every angle. I hadn’t even booked the venue for my nuptials yet, but my mother had insisted that we grab the first appointment we could get at Wedding Atelier on Madison Avenue. Apparently, the average bridal gown called for three alterations, taking anywhere from three weeks to three months in between visits. I made a mental note to really watch my weight during this next year. You can always take the dress in, but you certainly can’t add more material.

I still couldn’t believe I would be getting married and graduating from my Master’s program in the same year. A smile tugged on my mouth as I remembered Alex’s perfect proposal to me on New Year’s Eve. But just as quick as it brushed my lips, the smile faded and the anxiety of school nestled its way back into my chest. I was hoping that working with Dr. Greenfield would help prepare me for what I was going to do after graduation. Or at the very least, guarantee one letter of recommendation. I had narrowed down the application process to three Ph.D. programs, all in New York. I tried to talk to my mom about how overwhelmed I felt, but instead of lending an ear, she convinced me to get the wedding planning out of the way so I could focus on school when it was all sorted out. I could tell she was much more interested in my wedding than my career path. She finally gave me enough anxiety on the matter that I caved and reluctantly agreed to let her come with me. I played the “maid of honor card,” asking Amalia to come along as a buffer.

“I understand it’s my wedding day,” I emphasized the word my. “I just don’t think this is the right dress for me. I want something a little less,” I paused, searching for the right word. “Overwhelming.”

I looked to Amalia for help, and with the smallest nod I knew she completely understood what I was talking about. She walked over to the sales associate that had been helping us and whispered something in her ear. I wondered if she was trying to come up with a plan to have my mother kicked out of the store.

My mother let out an exaggerated sigh and downed the rest of her complimentary champagne. She then turned to a different sales associate and gently shook her empty champagne flute, indicating that she’d like a top-off. I shook my head and wished my dad could be here instead of her, but she had insisted this was a “woman thing,” and wouldn’t have it any other way.

A beat later, Amalia and a dark-haired sales associate came strutting over to us holding a rack of more suitable and demure wedding gowns. I felt a smile tug on the side of my lips, while my mother’s morphed into a purse.

“That one,” Amalia pointed to lace-covered gown and the sales associate quickly held it up and smiled, patiently waiting for my approval. I eyed the gown. It was nothing short of magnificent. There were slim, tank-like sleeves that were completely made of Chantilly lace, the neckline fell into a sweetheart style, but not too plunging. The rest of the gown was silk with an overlay tastefully covered in the same lace as the sleeves, and the train was even a manageable length.

“May I see the back of the dress?” I took a step off the podium and walked closer to the gown.

The back of the dress was low-cut. Stylish with a hint of sexy. I wouldn’t be able to wear a bra with the gown, but most brides had one sewn in anyway. From the waist down to the beginning of the train were about thirty satin-covered buttons. I put my hand on my chest, unable to speak for a moment. I felt a small stream of tears flow into my eyes as I imagined marrying Alex in that dress, and didn’t even try to stop them from coming out. I hadn’t put on any make-up out of fear that I’d somehow manage to smudge some on the dresses and owe fifteen thousand dollars in gowns.

“I’d like to try that on,” I whispered through a sniff, feeling a slight rush of excitement. Amalia winked and smiled back. “Can you come into the dressing room with me and help me with the buttons?”

Amalia touched her fingertip to her lips, pretending to contemplate this task. “I do believe that is a job for the maid of honor,” she pretended to brush some dust off her shoulders and laughed.

The red-headed sales associate with the champagne bottle came back to fill up my mother’s glass. She slowly sat back down on the plush couch and crossed her legs. “I’m not sure how that will look, but by all means try it on. We haven’t anything better to do today.” She checked her Movado watch and then looked back up at me.

I pressed my mouth into a tight-lipped smile, growing more impatient with her callousness. “Oh, if I’m keeping you, Mother, please don’t feel obligated to stay.” Before I could gauge her reaction, Amalia grabbed the long train of the sparkle disaster I was still wearing and motioned for me to follow her into the dressing room.

Once we were alone, I let out a small grunt. This was supposed to be a wonderful moment, and my mother was nearly ruining it.

“You’re mom’s kind of a handful,” Amalia muttered with wide eyes. Her phone buzzed in her jean pocket, but she ignored it.

“Do you need to get that?” I answered as she helped me out of the first dress. I took a step back and admired the perfect gown I was about to try on and allowed myself to do a little dance in my bra and underwear.

Amalia laughed. “Nice moves. But you should save it for your honeymoon. And, no, I don’t need to get it, it’s probably Michael. He knows I’m with you, maid-of-honor duties and all. I’m having dinner with him later.”

“So this is really happening, then?” I asked as I held my arms over my head so she could help me into the dress. “You and Michael are officially dating?”

Amalia stood on the tiny stool in the dressing room and helped pull the gown over my head, after which she motioned for me to turn around so she could get started on the exuberant amount of buttons.

“Leave it the girl in the wedding gown to ask me if Michael and I were really happening!” she rolled her eyes. “I think your wedding is a much bigger deal than me and Michael going out to dinner.”